


Piertotum locomotor

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Crossover, F/M, Kissing, Magic, The Hobbit/Harry Potter, battle violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-18 00:46:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7292719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin’s love uses magic from the Harry Potter universe to change the outcome of the Battle of the Five Armies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piertotum locomotor

Gandalf’s pronouncement of your name rang out over the hushed murmurs of elderly women and the cries of children huddled in the dilapidated shell of Dale’s Great Hall. 

The wizard’s long robes swished about him as he strode through the crowd to stand directly before you, and with a reassuring smile to a little boy who looked to you with fear in his eyes, you scrambled to your feet.

“Gandalf? What’s going on?”

“There may yet be a way to help Thorin,” he said urgently, “if you are willing.”

Your heart leapt in your chest. “You know I am.”

He nodded grimly, though there was a gleam of satisfaction in his eye. “Come with me.”

The air outside the Hall was thick with the roar of battle, and you drew your coat more tightly around you in the chill as you trotted to keep up with Gandalf’s hurried gait.

“Word has come from the Lady Galadriel,” he explained as he walked. “There is a spell that may be used to turn the tide of the battle. But it may only be cast by someone of your world.”

“My world?” So much had happened since the fateful day, over a year ago, when you’d chased a grocery list snatched from your hand by the wind into an abandoned, overgrown park and somehow stumbled into Middle-Earth that your previous life sometimes seemed shadowy and dreamlike, but you were certain that your world was distinctly free of magic. “How can that be?”

“I do not know,” Gandalf admitted gruffly, “but the wisdom of the Lady of Lorien is not to be doubted.”

You started at a sudden whoosh of beating wings, and with a thud, an enormous eagle landed before you in the crumbling, vine-strangled remains of the town square.

“I thank you, my friend,” Gandalf inclined his head to the eagle before turning to you with a gentler, almost regretful expression. “I must warn you it will be dangerous.”

With a shaky breath, you nodded bracingly, determined to act before you could change your mind. “Tell me what to do.”

* * *

Gandalf had told you after the Carrock that it was a great privilege to ride upon an eagle, but now, as you squeezed your eyes shut and held tightly to the creature’s huge feathers, you might rather have braved the stomping feet of trolls and the orcs’ maces.

The eagle swooped to dodge the crossfire of elvish arrows, turning your stomach with a sickening lurch, and dove to the ground to land so suddenly that you lost your grip and rolled off of its back, landing hard on your stomach in the dirt not far from the shattered remnants of the barricade the dwarves had erected in Erebor’s Front Gate.

You struggled to your hands and knees, gasping for the breath that had been knocked out of you. All around you, the battle raged, affording you brief glimpses of your friends. Dori was only a few steps away, fighting hammer and tongs with one of the tallest orcs you’d seen yet…Fili and Kili flashed into view, running together to attack a troll’s elephantine legs…and as you dragged yourself to your feet, you turned to find yourself face to face with Thorin.

His eyes, wild and dangerous with the fight, widened, softened, and he rushed to you with astonishment plain on his face.

“You came back,” he marveled, reaching with one hand to gently trace your shoulder, your arm, as though reassuring himself that you were real.

Your own eyes stung with welling tears to see Thorin once again as you knew and loved him – brave, determined, free of the mad lust for treasure that had held him in its grip for so many dark days – and a smile wobbled on your lips. “How could I stay away?”

“ _Amrâlimê_ ,” Thorin murmured in a husky voice, drawing you into a tight embrace. A sob choked you as you clutched him with equal fervor, but an instant later he had whirled to shield your body with his, and with a flash of his sword’s blade in the sunshine, an orc’s head rolled on the ground.

“Best save the courting for later, cousin,” Dain called cheerfully from where he was occupied with crushing a goblin’s ribs with his great warhammer, and Thorin seemed to come to himself.

“You must get away from here, it’s too dangerous.”

“I came to help you,” you promised, focusing anew on your mission.

“Help?” He frowned incredulously. “How?”

You glanced up at the looming stone statues that stood on either side of Erebor’s Gate before looking back to Thorin and to the enemies that surrounded you. “Just keep them off of me.”

Thorin’s wondering expression hardened into steely resolve, and he gave you a nod, turning around to keep his back to yours, his sword poised to defend.

You looked again to the two colossal dwarven warriors, with their stone armor and massive battle axes dappled with lichen and the dust of the ages. 

_This is impossible,_ your mind whispered, but you shook off the thought, striving for the confidence that Gandalf had told you was so important in matters of magic.

“ _Pierto_ …” The dryness of your mouth smothered the rest, and you swallowed hard and began again. “ _Piertotum locomotor_.”

A grunt from Thorin, and Orcrist clanged, harsh and metallic, against another weapon behind you.

Your pulse was a dizzying, rushing sound in your ears as you stared hopefully at the statues, each second seeming like an eternity, but they remained unchanged, their dead stone eyes gazing impassively over the valley.

“ _Piertotum locomotor,_ ” you repeated, more loudly, desperately.

Nothing.

“More of them are coming,” Thorin shouted. “We need to move.”

“Wait! Let me try again!” 

You closed your eyes, imagining what you wanted, what you needed, willing the spell to work. Your voice sank to a pleading whisper. “ _Piertotum locomotor_.”

You opened your eyes. The clash of armies swirled on around you, and the giant dwarves kept their posts at the Gate, senseless, merciless, useless.

“Thorin, I’m sorry.” Tears of despair spilled unchecked to your cheeks as you turned to him. “I can’t do it. I’m so sorry.”

His roughened palm cradled your face, a bittersweet smile flickering over his lips as he stroked a fallen tear away with his thumb. “We’ll find another way. If I can get to Ravenhill, and kill Azog there–”

His words were cut short by a sudden, deafening crack that echoed like thunder and caused silence to fall like a blanket over the field of combat. Every soul in the valley turned their eyes toward the Gate to watch in wonder and disbelief as one dwarven statue painstakingly began to rise from its crouching stance with a creaking, grinding roar of moving stone.

The noise doubled as the statue’s fellow began to follow suit, and you were nearly thrown to the ground but for Thorin’s protective grasp when the figures stepped down from their stone platforms, their feet shaking the earth and raising clouds of dust about them. At this, the amazed stillness in the valley broke, and the enemies scattered before the heavy footfalls of the statues while the elven and dwarven armies took advantage of the chaos to attack them as they tried to regroup.

The two giant dwarves walked slowly, purposefully, moving ever closer to where you stood. Thorin seized your arm and made to pull you away, but you hesitated as they ground to a halt just in front of you. Their massive necks bent laboriously to look down, turning their blank eyes upon you, and you murmured, “wait,” to Thorin before stepping forward on trembling legs, cupping your hands around your mouth like a megaphone.

“Fight for the dwarves!” Your voice cracked with the force of your shout. “Destroy the enemies of Erebor!”

The enormous heads turned themselves toward the dark tower of Ravenhill, and you were enveloped by dust and the valley’s tremors as the statues passed you to walk with inexorable steps toward it, crushing wargs and their riders alike beneath their boots, swinging their axes methodically to dispatch charging trolls as they went.

Your eyes were fixed on them in amazement even as Thorin swung you up behind him on the back of one of Dain’s war rams. 

“Hold tightly to me,” he instructed you, and kicked the ram’s sides, spurring it forward to follow the statues at a pace that made the wind whip your hair free from the braid that contained it. The ram’s gallop was jolting, and you wrapped your arms around Thorin’s waist to hold on for dear life, squinting against the afternoon sun, your attention drawn by a distant fluttering of dark wings on the horizon.

“The eagles,” you shouted over the wind and the battle cries all around you, “the eagles are coming!”

“We’ll live to fight another day,” Thorin called, a relieved smile lighting his face as the eagles swooped into the fray, tossing orcs like hay on a pitchfork, and he redoubled his efforts with Orcrist, swinging it to and fro to cut down any enemy within arm’s reach as the ram pushed on through the crowd.

Ahead, you could see the giant statues pummeling the orcish forces on Ravenhill, their axes gouging huge holes in the crumbling tower as the bodies of Azog’s soldiers fell helplessly from its heights.

Abruptly, your mount reared, swerving, as the eagle that had brought you to the battle landed without warning in front of it, and your fingers scrabbled at the leather of Thorin’s coat as you slid from the ram’s back to the ground, quickly leaping to your feet. Another eagle circled overhead, dropping something from its talons that landed with a crashing thud in the dirt.

Azog the Defiler lay before you, grievously wounded. His severed arm, with its wicked blade that served him as a hand, hung limp and useless, and black blood seeped from a gash in his abdomen. 

The turmoil around you faded to a dim blur as Thorin dismounted the ram in deadly calm to walk a slow circle around his nemesis, the satisfaction of victory and the anguished remembrance of loved ones dead by Azog’s hand warring in his expression. Azog’s eyes, dark with pain, fixed themselves on Thorin with a hateful glare, and he weakly spit defiant words in his own guttural tongue.

There was a scuffle of feet and the huffs of labored breathing behind you, and Kili skidded to a stop at your side, his eyes wide, while Fili’s protective hand came to rest on your shoulder. You reached blindly to grasp Kili’s arm as the three of you stood silently watching the scene unfold.

Slowly, Thorin’s hands came together to clasp Orcrist’s hilt with a sure, steady grip. He walked to stand by Azog’s head, leaning closer to look into the pale orc’s face. 

A quiet, grimly spoken sentence in Khuzdul, of which you recognized only the word “Thror,” and Thorin raised the sword high above his head.

You turned your eyes away from the death blow.

* * *

Evening brought a feast of sorts, a far cry from the abundant banquets with which the dwarves of ages past celebrated their victories, but furnished with the best of the provisions that could be found in Erebor and in Dale, shared among dwarves, elves, and men in the mountain halls where only days before, Thorin had promised a fight to the death for Erebor’s gold.

Thorin had slipped away just after the singing began, and you found him gazing over the eerily quiet valley from the rubble of the Front Gate, where the giant statues, lifeless and still once again, had regained their places on either side of the yawning doorway. He acknowledged your presence with a smile that was warm, though weary, and you went to stand beside him, watching wraithlike clouds drift over the stars, misty and gray in the black sky. 

“I owe my kingdom to you, and likely my life,” he said quietly, but you shook your head.

“No talk of debt between us, Thorin. You’d have done the same for me.”

His face fell. “I sent you away with harsh words and left my people to die while I cowered inside these walls.”

“That wasn’t you,” you said firmly, “that was the sickness. And you beat it. You proved what you’ve said all along…you’re not your grandfather.”

One corner of his mouth twitched upward halfheartedly, and you reached to lace your fingers with his, adding, “I have no doubt that the good you’ve yet to do will far outweigh what happened here today. You’ll be a very great King, I know it.”

His hand enveloped yours with a grateful grasp, and he turned away from the bloodstained field to look at you. “And what of you? What are your plans?”

“Well, between you and me, Gandalf seems at a loss for how to send me back to my own world…not that there’s much there for me, anyway. I might like to stay in Erebor,” you ventured playfully, “if the King will allow it, of course.”

A luminous smile stole over Thorin’s face, and his hands slipped around your waist to pull you close to the solid warmth of his chest, making your heart flutter with his nearness.

“It is the King’s dearest wish,” he murmured, and carefully, tentatively, he closed the distance between you, weeks of despair and bitter longing melting away with a slow, needy, achingly tender kiss. 

You sighed against his lips, burying your hands in his thick hair to hold him closer, feeling as though you could weep for joy at this restoration of your hopes, and when at last you parted, he rested his forehead against yours with contentment written on his rugged features.

“They’re probably missing you,” you reminded him, and he chuckled ruefully, nodding.

“I suppose I must get used to presiding over festivities.”

“I think so, Your Majesty,” you grinned, and he laughed more heartily than you’d heard him do in months.

With a last, yearning kiss that held the promise of many more to come, you turned together to walk hand in hand away from the cold night and the ghosts of war and into the peaceful haven of the mountain.


End file.
